CHAPTER VII
TRIBULATION IN HADDON
After I had left Haddon at Sir George's tempestuous order, he had remainedin a state of furious anger against Dorothy and myself for a fortnight ormore. But after her adroit conversation with him concerning the Stanleymarriage, wherein she neither promised nor refused, and after she learnedthat she could more easily cajole her father than command him, Dorothyeasily ensconced herself again in his warm heart, and took me into thatcapacious abode along with her.
Then came the trip to Derby, whereby his serene Lordship, James Stanley,had been enabled to see Dorothy and to fall in love with her winsomebeauty, and whereby I was brought back to Haddon. Thereafter came eventscrowding so rapidly one upon the heels of another that I scarce know whereto begin the telling of them. I shall not stop to say, "Sir George told methis," or "Madge, Dorothy, or John told me that," but I shall write as ifI had personal knowledge of all that happened. After all, the importantfact is that I know the truth concerning matters whereof I write, and ofthat you may rest with surety.
The snow lay upon the ground for a fortnight after the storm in which werode from Derby, but at the end of that time it melted, and the sun shonewith the brilliancy and warmth of springtide. So warm and genial was theweather that the trees, flowers, and shrubs were cozened into buddingforth. The buds were withered by a killing frost which came upon us laterin the season at a time when the spring should have been abroad in all hergraciousness, and that year was called the year of the leafless summer.
One afternoon Sir George received a distinguished guest in the person ofthe Earl of Derby, and the two old gentlemen remained closeted togetherfor several hours. That night at supper, after the ladies had risen fromtable, Sir George dismissed the servants saying that he wished to speak tome in private. I feared that he intended again bringing forward thesubject of marriage with Dorothy, but he soon relieved my mind.
"The Earl of Derby was here to-day. He has asked for Doll's hand inmarriage with his eldest son and heir, Lord James Stanley, and I havegranted the request."
"Indeed," I responded, with marvellous intelligence. I could say nothingmore, but I thought--in truth I knew--that it did not lie within the powerof any man in or out of England to dispose of Dorothy Vernon's hand inmarriage to Lord James Stanley. Her father might make a murderess out ofher, but Countess of Derby, never.
Sir George continued, "The general terms of the marriage contract havebeen agreed upon by the earl and me, and the lawyers will do the rest."
"What is your feeling in the matter?" I asked aimlessly.
"My feeling?" cried Sir George. "Why, sir, my feeling is that the girlshall marry Stanley just as soon as arrangements can be made for thewedding ceremony. The young fellow, it seems, saw Doll at Derby-town theday you came home, and since then he is eager, his father tells me, forthe union. He is coming to see her when I give my permission, and I willsend him word at as early a date as propriety will admit. I must not letthem be seen together too soon, you know. There might be a hitch in themarriage negotiations. The earl is a tight one in business matters, andmight drive a hard bargain with me should I allow his son to place Doll ina false position before the marriage contract is signed." He little knewhow certainly Dorothy herself would avoid that disaster.
He took a long draught from his mug of toddy and winked knowingly at me,saying, "I am too wise for that."
"Have you told Dorothy?" I asked.
"No," he replied, "I have not exactly told her. I had a talk with her afew days ago on the subject, though the earl and I had not, at that time,entirely agreed upon the terms, and I did not know that we should agree.But I told her of the pending negotiations, because I wished to prepareher for the signing of the contract; and also, by gad, Malcolm, I wantedto make the girl understand at the outset that I will have no triflingwith my commands in this matter. I made that feature of the case veryplain, you may rest assured. She understands me fully, and although atfirst she was a little inclined to fight, she soon--she soon--well, sheknuckled under gracefully when she found she must."
"Did she consent to the marriage?" I asked, well knowing that even if shehad consented in words, she had no thought of doing so in deed.
"Y-e-s," returned Sir George, hesitatingly.
"I congratulate you," I replied.
"I shall grieve to lose Doll," the old man slowly continued withperceptible signs of emotion. "I shall grieve to lose my girl, but I amanxious to have the wedding over. You see, Malcolm, of late I have noticedsigns of wilfulness in Doll that can be more easily handled by a husbandthan by a father. Marriage and children anchor a woman, you know. Intruth, I have opened my eyes to the fact that Doll is growing dangerous.I'gad, the other day I thought she was a child, but suddenly I learn sheis a woman. I had not before noticed the change. Beauty and wilfulness,such as the girl has of late developed, are powers not to beunderestimated by wise men. There is hell in them, Malcolm, I tell youthere is hell in them." Sir George meditatively snuffed the candle withhis fingers and continued: "If a horse once learns that he can kick--sellhim. Only yesterday, as I said, Doll was a child, and now, by Jove, she isa full-blown woman, and I catch myself standing in awe of her and callingher Dorothy. Yes, damme, standing in awe of my own child! That will neverdo, you know. What has wrought the change? And, after all, what is thechange? I can't define it, but there has been a great one."
He was in a revery and spoke more to himself than to me. "Yesterday shewas my child--she was a child, and now--and now--she is--she is--Why thedevil didn't you take her, Malcolm?" cried the old man, awakening. "Butthere, never mind; that is all past and gone, and the future Earl of Derbywill be a great match for her."
"Do you know the future Earl of Derby?" I asked. "Have you ever seen him?"
"No," Sir George replied. "I hear he is rather wild and uncouth, but--"
"My dear cousin," said I, interrupting him, "he is a vulgar, drunkenclown, whose associates have always been stable boys, tavern maids, andthose who are worse than either."
"What?" cried Sir George, hotly, the liquor having reached his brain. "Youwon't have Doll yourself, and you won't consent to another--damme, wouldyou have the girl wither into spinsterhood? How, sir, dare you interfere?"
"I withdraw all I said, Sir George," I replied hastily. "I have not a wordto say against the match. I thought--"
"Well, damn you, sir, don't think."
"You said you wished to consult me about the affair, and I supposed--"
"Don't suppose either," replied Sir George, sullenly. "Supposing andthinking have hanged many a man. I didn't wish to consult you. I simplywanted to tell you of the projected marriage." Then after a moment ofhalf-maudlin, sullen silence he continued, "Go to bed, Malcolm, go to bed,or we'll be quarrelling again."
I was glad enough to go to bed, for my cousin was growing drunk, and drinkmade a demon of this man, whose violence when sober was tempered by aheart full of tenderness and love.
Next morning Sir George was feeling irritable from the effects of thebrandy he had drunk over night. At breakfast, in the presence of LadyCrawford, Madge, and myself, he abruptly informed Dorothy that he wasabout to give that young goddess to Lord James Stanley for his wife. Hetold her of the arrangement he had made the day before with the Earl ofDerby. Lady Crawford looked toward her brother in surprise, and Madgepushed her chair a little way back from the table with a startledmovement. Dorothy sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing fire and herbreast rising and falling like the storm-wrought pulsing of the sea. Icoughed warningly and placed my finger on my lips, making the sign ofsilence to Dorothy. The girl made a wondrous and beautiful struggleagainst her wrath, and in a moment all signs of ill-temper disappeared,and her face took on an expression of sweet meekness which did not belongthere of right. She quietly sat down again, and when I looked at her, Iwould have sworn that Griselda in the flesh was sitting opposite me. SirGeorge was right. "Ways such as the girl had of late developed weredangerous." Hell was in them to an extent little dr
eamed of by her father.Breakfast was finished in silence. Dorothy did not come down to dinner atnoon, but Sir George did not mark her absence. At supper her place wasstill vacant.
"Where is Doll?" cried Sir George, angrily. He had been drinking heavilyduring the afternoon. "Where is Doll?" he demanded.
"She is on the terrace," answered Madge. "She said she did not wantsupper."
"Tell your mistress to come to supper," said Sir George, speaking to oneof the servants. "You will find her on the terrace."
The servant left the room, but soon returned, saying that Mistress Dorothywanted no supper.
"Tell her to come to the table whether she wants supper or not. Tell her Iwill put a stop to her moping about the place like a surly vixen," growledSir George.
"Don't send such a message by a servant," pleaded Lady Crawford.
"Then take it to her yourself, Dorothy," exclaimed her brother.
Dorothy returned with her aunt and meekly took her place at the table.
"I will have none of your moping and pouting," said Sir George, as Dorothywas taking her chair.
The girl made no reply, but she did not eat.
"Eat your supper," her father commanded. "I tell you I will have no--"
"You would not have me eat if I am not hungry, would you, father?" sheasked softly.
"I'd have you hungry, you perverse wench."
"Then make me an appetite," returned the girl. I never heard more ominoustones fall from human lips. They betokened a mood in which one couldeasily do murder in cold blood, and I was surprised that Sir George didnot take warning and remain silent.
"I cannot make an appetite for you, fool," he replied testily.
"Then you cannot make me eat," retorted Dorothy.
"Ah, you would answer me, would you, you brazen, insolent huzzy," criedher father, angrily.
Dorothy held up her hand warningly to Sir George, and uttered the oneword, "Father." Her voice sounded like the clear, low ring of steel as Ihave heard it in the stillness of sunrise during a duel to the death.Madge gently placed her hand in Dorothy's, but the caress met no response.
"Go to your room," answered Sir George.
Dorothy rose to her feet and spoke calmly: "I have not said that I woulddisobey you in regard to this marriage which you have sought for me; andyour harshness, father, grows out of your effort to reconcile yourconscience with the outrage you would put upon your own flesh andblood--your only child."
"Suffering God!" cried Sir George, frenzied with anger and drink. "Am I toendure such insolence from my own child? The lawyers will be hereto-morrow. The contract will be signed, and, thank God, I shall soon berid of you. I'll place you in the hands of one who will break yourdamnable will and curb your vixenish temper." Then he turned to LadyCrawford. "Dorothy, if there is anything to do in the way of gowns andwomen's trumpery in preparation for the wedding, begin at once, for theceremony shall come off within a fortnight."
This was beyond Dorothy's power to endure. Madge felt the storm coming andclutched her by the arm in an effort to stop her, but nothing could havedone that.
"I marry Lord Stanley?" she asked in low, bell-like tones, full ofcontempt and disdain. "Marry that creature? Father, you don't know me."
"By God, I know myself," retorted Sir George, "and I say--"
"Now hear me, father," she interrupted in a manner that silenced evenhim. She bent forward, resting one fair hand upon the table, while sheheld out her other arm bared to the elbow. "Hear what I say and take itfor the truth as if it had come from Holy Writ. I will open the veins inthis arm and will strew my blood in a gapless circle around Haddon Hall sothat you shall tread upon it whenever you go forth into the day or intothe night before I will marry the drunken idiot with whom you would curseme. Ay, I will do more. I will kill you, if need be, should you try toforce him on me. Now, father, we understand each other. At least youcannot fail to understand me. For the last time I warn you. Beware of me."
She gently pushed the chair back from the table, quietly adjusted thesleeve which she had drawn upward from her wrist, and slowly walked out ofthe room, softly humming the refrain of a roundelay. There was no trace ofexcitement about the girl. Her brain was acting with the ease andprecision of a perfectly constructed machine. Sir George, by his violenceand cruelty, had made a fiend of this strong, passionate, tender heart.That was all.
The supper, of course, was quickly finished, and the ladies left the room.
Sir George took to his bottle and remained with it till his servants puthim to bed. I slipped away from him and smoked a pipe in front of thekitchen fire. Then I went early to my bed in Eagle Tower.
Dorothy went to her apartments. There she lay upon her bed, and for a timeher heart was like flint. Soon she thought of her precious golden heartpierced with a silver arrow, and tears came to her eyes as she drew thepriceless treasure from her breast and breathed upon it a prayer to theGod of love for help. Her heart was soft again, soft only as hers couldbe, and peace came to her as she pressed John's golden heart to her lipsand murmured over and over the words, "My love, my love, my love," andmurmuring fell asleep.
I wonder how many of the countless women of this world found peace,comfort, and ecstasy in breathing those magic words yesterday? How manyhave found them to-day? How many will find them to-morrow? No one cantell; but this I know, they come to every woman at some time in her life,righteously or unrighteously, as surely as her heart pulses.
That evening Jennie Faxton bore a letter to John, informing him of theprojected Stanley marriage. It asked him to meet the writer at BowlingGreen Gate, and begged him to help her if he could.
The small and intermittent remnants of conscience, sense of duty, andcaution which still remained in John's head--I will not say in John'sheart, for that was full to overflowing with something else--were quicklybanished by the unwelcome news in Dorothy's letter. His first impulse wasto kill Stanley; but John Manners was not an assassin, and a duel wouldmake public all he wished to conceal. He wished to conceal, among otherthings, his presence at Rutland. He had two reasons for so desiring. Firstin point of time was the urgent purpose with which he had come toDerbyshire. That purpose was to further a plan for the rescue of MaryStuart and to bring her incognito to Rutland Castle as a refuge untilElizabeth could be persuaded to receive her. Of this plan I knew nothingtill after the disastrous attempt to carry it out, of which I shallhereafter tell you. The other reason why John wished his presence atRutland unknown was that if he were supposed to be in London, no one wouldsuspect him of knowing Dorothy Vernon.
You must remember there had been no overt love-making between John andDorothy up to that time. The scene at the gate approached perilously nearit, but the line between concealment and confession had not been crossed.Mind you, I say there had been no love-making _between_ them. WhileDorothy had gone as far in that direction as a maiden should dare go--andto tell the exact truth, a great deal farther--John had remained almostsilent for reasons already given you. He also felt a fear of the girl, andfailed to see in her conduct those signs of intense love which would havebeen plainly discernible had not his perceptions been blinded by the furyof his own infatuation. He had placed a curb on his passion and did notreally know its strength and power until he learned that another man wassoon to possess the girl he loved. Then life held but one purpose for him.Thus, you see that when Dorothy was moaning, "My love, my love," and waskissing the golden heart, she was taking a great deal for granted.Perhaps, however, she better understood John's feeling for her than did hehimself. A woman's sixth sense, intuition, is a great help to her in suchcases. Perhaps the girl knew with intuitive confidence that her passionwas returned; and perhaps at first she found John's receptive mode ofwooing sweeter far than an aggressive attack would have been. It may bealso there was more of the serpent's cunning than of reticence in John'sconduct. He knew well the ways of women, and perhaps he realized that ifhe would allow Dorothy to manage the entire affair she would do his wooingfor him much better than he cou
ld do it for himself. If you are a man, trythe plan upon the next woman whom you seek to win. If she happens to beone who has full confidence in her charms, you will be surprised at theresult. Women lacking that confidence are restrained by fear and doubt.But in no case have I much faith in the hammer-and-tongs process at theopening of a campaign. Later on, of course--but you doubtless are quite aswell informed concerning this important subject as I. There is, however,so much blundering in that branch of science that I have a mind to endow acollege at Oxford or at Paris in which shall be taught the gentle,universally needed art of making love. What a noble attendance such acollege would draw. But I have wandered wofully from my story.
I must go back a short time in my narrative. A few days before my returnto Haddon Hall the great iron key to the gate in the wall east of BowlingGreen Hill was missed from the forester's closet where it had hung for acentury or more. Bowling Green Hill, as you know, is eastward from HaddonHall a distance of the fourth part of a mile, and the gate is east of thehill about the same distance or less. A wall is built upon the east lineof the Haddon estate, and east of the wall lies a great trackless forestbelonging to the house of Devonshire. In olden times there had been a roadfrom Bakewell to Rowsley along the east side of the wall; but before SirGeorge's seizin the road had been abandoned and the gate was not used. Itstood in a secluded, unfrequented spot, and Dorothy thought herself veryshrewd in choosing it for a trysting-place.
But as I told you, one day the key was missed. It was of no value or use,and at first nothing was thought of its loss; but from time to time thefact that it could not be found was spoken of as curious. All the servantshad been questioned in vain, and the loss of the key to Bowling Green Gatesoon took on the dignity of a mystery--a mystery soon to be solved, alas!to Dorothy's undoing.
The afternoon of the day following the terrible scene between Sir Georgeand his daughter at the supper table, Dorothy rode forth alone upon hermare Dolcy. From the window of my room in Eagle Tower I saw her go downthe west side of the Wye toward Rowsley. I ascended to the roof of thetower, and from that elevation I saw her cross the river, and soon she waslost to sight in the forest. At that time I knew nothing of the newtrysting-place, but I felt sure that Dorothy had gone out to seek John.The sun shone brightly, and its gentle warmth enticed me to remain uponthe tower battlements, to muse, and to dream. I fetched my pipe andtobacco from my room. I had been smoking at intervals for several months,but had not entirely learned to like the weed, because of a slight nauseawhich it invariably caused me to feel. But I thought by practice now andagain to inure myself to the habit, which was then so new and fashionableamong modish gentlemen. While I smoked I mused upon the past and present,and tried to peer into the future--a fruitless task wherein we waste muchvaluable time; a vain striving, like Eve's, after forbidden knowledge,which, should we possess it, would destroy the little remnant of Edenstill existing on earth. Could we look forward only to our joys, aknowledge of the future might be good to have; but imagine, if you can,the horror of anticipating evils to come.
After a short time, a lotuslike dreaminess stole over me, and past andfuture seemed to blend in a supreme present of contentment and rest. ThenI knew I had wooed and won Tobacco and that thenceforth I had at hand anever ready solace in time of trouble. At the end of an hour my dreamingwas disturbed by voices, which came distinctly up to me from the base ofthe tower. I leaned over the battlements to listen, and what I heard gaveme alarm and concern such as all the tobacco in the world could notassuage. I looked down the dizzy heights of Eagle Tower and saw Sir Georgein conversation with Ben Shaw, a woodman. I had not heard the words firstspoken between them.
"Ay, ay, Sir George," said Ben, "they be there, by Bowling Green Gate,now. I saw them twenty minutes since,--Mistress Vernon and a gentleman."
"Perhaps the gentleman is Sir Malcolm," answered my cousin. I drew backfrom the battlements, and the woodman replied, "Perhaps he be, but I doubtit."
There had been a partial reconciliation--sincere on Sir George's part, butfalse and hollow on Dorothy's--which Madge had brought about betweenfather and daughter that morning. Sir George, who was sober and repentantof his harshness, was inclined to be tender to Dorothy, though he stillinsisted in the matter of the Stanley marriage. Dorothy's anger hadcooled, and cunning had taken its place. Sir George had asked her toforgive him for the hard words he had spoken, and she had again led him tobelieve that she would be dutiful and obedient. It is hard to determine,as a question of right and wrong, whether Dorothy is to be condemned orjustified in the woful deception she practised upon her father. To use aplain, ugly word, she lied to him without hesitation or pain ofconscience. Still, we must remember that, forty years ago, girls werefrequently forced, regardless of cries and piteous agony, into marriagesto which death would have been preferable. They were flogged intoobedience, imprisoned and starved into obedience, and alas! they weresometimes killed in the course of punishment for disobedience by men ofSir George's school and temper. I could give you at least one instance inwhich a fair girl met her death from punishment inflicted by her fatherbecause she would not consent to wed the man of his choice. Can we blameDorothy if she would lie or rob or do murder to avoid a fate which to herwould have been worse than death? When you find yourself condemning her,now or hereafter in this history, if you are a man ask yourself thisquestion: "If I had a sweetheart in Dorothy's sad case, should I not wishher to do as she did? Should I not wish, if it were possible by anymeans, that she should save herself from the worst of fates, and shouldsave me from the agony of losing her to such a man as Sir George hadselected for Dorothy's husband? Is it not a sin to disobey the law ofself-preservation actively or passively?" Answer these questions as youchoose. As for myself, I say God bless Dorothy for lying. Perhaps I am inerror. Perhaps I am not. I but tell you the story of Dorothy as ithappened, and I am a poor hand at solving questions of right and wrongwhere a beautiful woman is concerned. To my thinking, she usually is inthe right. In any case, she is sure to have the benefit of the doubt.
When Sir George heard the woodman's story, he started hurriedly towardBowling Green Gate.
Now I shall tell you of Dorothy's adventures after I saw her cross theWye.
When she reached the gate, John was waiting for her.
"Ah, Sir John, I am so glad you are here. That is, I am glad you are herebefore I arrived--good even," said the girl, confusedly. Her heart againwas beating in a provoking manner, and her breath would not come with easeand regularity. The rapid progress of the malady with which she wasafflicted or blessed was plainly discernible since the last meeting withmy friend, Sir John. That is, it would have been plain to any one butJohn, whose ailment had taken a fatal turn and had progressed to theante-mortem state of blindness. By the help of the stimulating hope andfear which Dorothy's letter had brought to him, he had planned anelaborate conversation, and had determined to speak decisive words. Hehoped to receive from her the answer for which he longed; but his heartand breath seemed to have conspired with Dorothy to makeintercommunication troublesome.
"I received your gracious letter, Mistress Vernon, and I thank you. Iwas--I am--that is, my thanks are more than I--I can express."
"So I see," said the girl, half amused at John's condition, although itwas but little worse than her own. This universal malady, love, nevertakes its blind form in women. It opens their eyes. Under its influencethey can see the truth through a millstone. The girl's heart jumped withjoy when she saw John's truth-telling manner, and composure quickly cameto her relief, though she still feigned confusion because she wished himto see the truth in her as she had seen it in him. She well knew of hisblindness, and had almost begun to fear lest she would eventually becompelled to tell him in words that which she so ardently wished him tosee for himself. She thought John was the blindest of his sex; but shewas, to a certain extent, mistaken. John was blind, as you already know,but his reticence was not all due to a lack of sight. He at least hadreached the condition of a well-developed hope. He hoped
the girl caredfor him. He would have fully believed it had it not been for thedifficulty he found in convincing himself that a goddess like Dorothycould care for a man so unworthy as himself. Most modest persons areself-respecting. That was John's condition; he was not vain.
"Jennie brought me your letter also," said the girl, laughing because shewas happy, though her merriment somewhat disconcerted John.
"It told me," she continued, "that you would come. I have it here in mypocket--and--and the gate key." She determined this time to introduce thekey early in the engagement. "But I feared you might not want to come."The cunning, the boldness, and the humility of the serpent was in thegirl. "That is, you know, I thought--perhaps--that is, I feared that youmight not come. Your father might have been ill, or you might have changedyour mind after you wrote the letter."
"No," answered John, whose face was beaming with joy. Here, truly, was agoddess who could make the blind to see if she were but given a littletime.
"Do you mean that your father is not ill, or that you did not change yourmind?" asked Dorothy, whose face, as it should have been after such aspeech, was bent low while she struggled with the great iron key,entangled in the pocket of her gown.
"I mean that I have not changed my mind," said John, who felt that thetime to speak had come. "There has been no change in me other than a newaccess of eagerness with every hour, and a new longing to see you and tohear your voice."
Dorothy felt a great thrill pass through her breast, and she knew that thereward of her labors was at hand.
"Certainly," said the self-complacent girl, hardly conscious of her words,so great was the joyous tumult in her heart, "I should have known."
There was another pause devoted to the key, with bended head. "But--butyou might have changed your mind," she continued, "and I might not haveknown it, for, you see, I did not know your former state of mind; you havenever told me." Her tongue had led her further than she had intended togo, and she blushed painfully, and I think, considering her words,appropriately.
"My letter told you my state of mind. At least it told you of my intentionto come. I--I fear that I do not understand you," said John.
"I mean," she replied, with a saucy, fluttering little laugh as she lookedup from her conflict with the entangled key, "I mean that--that you don'tknow what I mean. But here is the key at last, and--and--you may, if youwish, come to this side of the gate."
She stepped forward to unlock the gate with an air that seemed to say,"Now, John, you shall have a clear field."
But to her surprise she found that the lock had been removed. Thatdiscovery brought back to John his wandering wits.
"Mistress Dorothy," he cried in tones of alarm, "I must not remain here.We are suspected and are sure to be discovered. Your father has set a trapfor us. I care not for myself, but I would not bring upon you the troubleand distress which would surely follow discovery. Let us quickly chooseanother place and time of meeting. I pray you, sweet lady, meet meto-morrow at this time near the white cliff back of Lathkil mill. I havethat to say to you which is the very blood of my heart. I must now leaveyou at once."
He took her hand, and kissing it, started to leave through the open gate.
The girl caught his arm to detain him. "Say it now, John, say it now. Ihave dreamed of it by night and by day. You know all, and I know all, andI long to hear from your lips the words that will break down all barriersbetween us." She had been carried away by the mad onrush of her passion.She was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain, and she spoke becauseshe could not help it.
"I will speak, Dorothy, God help me! God help me, I will speak!" saidJohn, as he caught the girl to his breast in a fierce embrace. "I loveyou, I love you! God Himself only knows how deeply, how passionately! I donot know. I cannot fathom its depths. With all my heart and soul, withevery drop of blood that pulses through my veins, I love you--I adore you.Give me your lips, my beauty, my Aphrodite, my queen!"
"There--they--are, John,--there they are. They are--all yours--allyours--now! Oh, God! my blood is on fire." She buried her face on hisbreast for shame, that he might not see her burning eyes and her scarletcheeks. Then after a time she cared not what he saw, and she lifted herlips to his, a voluntary offering. The supreme emotions of the momentdrove all other consciousness from their souls.
"Tell me, Dorothy, that you will be my wife. Tell me, tell me!" criedJohn.
"I will, I will, oh, how gladly, how gladly!"
"Tell me that no power on earth can force you to marry Lord Stanley. Tellme that you will marry no man but me; that you will wait--wait for metill--"
"I will marry no man but you, John, no man but you," said the girl,whisperingly. Her head was thrown back from his breast that she might lookinto his eyes, and that he might see the truth in hers. "I am all yours.But oh, John, I cannot wait--I cannot! Do not ask me to wait. It wouldkill me. I wear the golden heart you gave me, John," she continued, as shenestled closer in his embrace. "I wear the golden heart always. It isnever from me, even for one little moment. I bear it always upon my heart,John. Here it is." She drew from her breast the golden heart and kissedit. Then she pressed it to his lips, and said: "I kiss it twenty times inthe day and in the night; ay, a hundred times. I do not know how often;but now I kiss your real heart, John," and she kissed his breast, and thenstood tiptoe to lift her lips to his.
There was no room left now in John's heart for doubt that Dorothy Vernonwas his own forever and forever. She had convinced him beyond the reach offear or doubt. John forgot the lockless gate. He forgot everything butDorothy, and cruel time passed with a rapidity of which they wereunconscious. They were, however, brought back to consciousness by hearinga long blast from the forester's bugle, and John immediately retreatedthrough the gate.
Dorothy then closed the gate and hastily seated herself upon a stonebench against the Haddon side of the wall. She quickly assumed an attitudeof listless repose, and Dolcy, who was nibbling at the grass near by,doubtless supposed that her mistress had come to Bowling Green Gate torest because it was a secluded place, and because she desired to be alone.
Dorothy's attitude was not assumed one moment too soon, for hardly was hergown arranged with due regard to carelessness when Sir George's form roseabove the crest of Bowling Green Hill. In a few minutes he was standing infront of his daughter, red with anger. Dorothy's face wore a look of calminnocence, which I believe would have deceived Solomon himself,notwithstanding that great man's experience with the sex. It did more tothrow Sir George off the scent than any words the girl could have spoken.
"Who has been with you?" demanded Sir George, angrily.
"When, father?" queried the girl, listlessly resting her head against thewall.
"Now, this afternoon. Who has been with you? Ben Shaw said that a man washere. He said that he saw a man with you less than half an hour since."
That piece of information was startling to Dorothy, but no trace ofsurprise was visible in her manner or in her voice. She turned listlesslyand brushed a dry leaf from her gown. Then she looked calmly up into herfather's face and said laconically, but to the point:--
"Ben lied." To herself she said, "Ben shall also suffer."
"I do not believe that Ben lied," said Sir George. "I, myself, saw a mango away from here."
That was crowding the girl into close quarters, but she did not flinch.
"Which way did he go, father?" she asked, with a fine show of carelessnessin her manner, but with a feeling of excruciating fear in her breast. Shewell knew the wisdom of the maxim, "Never confess."
"He went northward," answered Sir George.
"Inside the wall?" asked Dorothy, beginning again to breathe freely, forshe knew that John had ridden southward.
"Inside the wall, of course," her father replied. "Do you suppose I couldsee him through the stone wall? One should be able to see through a stonewall to keep good watch on you."
"You might have thought you saw him through the wall," answered the girl."I sometimes think
of late, father, that you are losing your mind. Youdrink too much brandy, my dear father. Oh, wouldn't it be dreadful if youwere to lose your mind?" She rose as she spoke, and going to her fatherbegan to stroke him gently with her hand. She looked into his face withreal affection; for when she deceived him, she loved him best as a partialatonement for her ill-doing.
"Wouldn't that be dreadful?" she continued, while Sir George stood lost inbewilderment. "Wouldn't that be dreadful for my dear old father to losehis mind? But I really think it must be coming to pass. A great change hasof late come over you, father. You have for the first time in your lifebeen unkind to me and suspicious. Father, do you realize that you insultyour daughter when you accuse her of having been in this secluded placewith a man? You would punish another for speaking so against my fairname."
"But, Dorothy," Sir George replied, feeling as if he were in the wrong,"Ben Shaw said that he saw you here with a man, and I saw a man passtoward Bakewell. Who was he? I command you to tell me his name."
Dorothy knew that her father must have seen a man near the gate, but whohe was she could not imagine. John surely was beyond the wall and well outof sight on his way to Rowsley before her father reached the crest ofBowling Green Hill. But it was evident that Shaw had seen John. Evidencethat a man had been at the gate was too strong to be successfullycontradicted. Facts that cannot be successfully contradicted had better befrankly admitted. Dorothy sought through her mind for an admission thatwould not admit, and soon hit upon a plan which, shrewd as it seemed tobe, soon brought her to grief.
"Perhaps you saw Cousin Malcolm," said Dorothy, as the result of hermental search. "He passed here a little time since and stopped for amoment to talk. Perhaps you saw Malcolm, father. You would not find faultwith me because he was here, would you?"
"Dorothy, my daughter," said Sir George, hesitatingly, "are you telling methe truth?"
Then the fair girl lifted up her beautiful head, and standing erect at herfull height (it pains me to tell you this) said: "Father, I am a Vernon. Iwould not lie."
Her manner was so truthlike that Sir George was almost convinced.
He said, "I believe you."
Her father's confidence touched her keenly; but not to the point ofrepentance, I hardly need say.
Dorothy then grew anxious to return to the Hall that she might prepare meto answer whatever idle questions her father should put to me. She tookDolcy's rein, and leading the mare with one hand while she rested theother upon her father's arm, walked gayly across Bowling Green down to theHall, very happy because of her lucky escape.
But a lie is always full of latent retribution.
I was sitting in the kitchen, dreamily watching the huge fire when Dorothyand her father entered.
"Ah, Malcolm, are you here?" asked Sir George in a peculiar tone ofsurprise for which I could see no reason.
"I thought you were walking."
I was smoking. I took my pipe from my lips and said, "No, I am helping oldBess and Jennie with supper."
"Have you not been walking?" asked Sir George.
There was an odd expression on his face when I looked up to him, and I wassurprised at his persistent inquiry concerning so trivial a matter. ButSir George's expression, agitated as it was, still was calm when comparedwith that of Dorothy, who stood a step or two behind her father. Not onlywas her face expressive, but her hands, her feet, her whole body wereconvulsed in an effort to express something which, for the life of me, Icould not understand. Her wonderful eyes wore an expression, only tooreadable, of terror and pleading. She moved her hands rapidly and stampedher foot. During this pantomime she was forming words with her lips andnodding her head affirmatively. Her efforts at expression were lost uponme, and I could only respond with a blank stare of astonishment. Theexpression on my face caused Sir George to turn in the direction of mygaze, and he did so just in time to catch Dorothy in the midst of a mightypantomimic effort at mute communication.
"Why in the devil's name are you making those grimaces?" demanded SirGeorge.
"I wasn't making grimaces--I--I think I was about to sneeze," repliedDorothy.
"Do you think I am blind?" stormed Sir George. "Perhaps I am losing mymind? You are trying to tell Malcolm to say that he was with you atBowling Green Gate. Losing my mind, am I? Damme, I'll show you that if Iam losing my mind I have not lost my authority in my own house."
"Now, father, what is all this storming about?" asked the girl, coaxingly,as she boldly put her hands upon her father's shoulders and turned herface in all its wondrous beauty and childish innocence of expression up tohis. "Ask Malcolm to tell you whatever you wish to know." She was surethat her father had told me what she had been so anxious to communicate,and she felt certain that I would not betray her. She knew that I, whoseonly virtues were that I loved my friend and despised a lie, wouldwillingly bear false witness for her sake. She was right. I had caught thetruth of the situation from Sir George, and I quickly determined toperjure my soul, if need be, to help Dorothy. I cannot describe theinfluence this girl at times exerted over me. When under its spell Iseemed to be a creature of her will, and my power to act voluntarily wasparalyzed by a strange force emanating from her marvellous vitality. Icannot describe it. I tell you only the incontestable fact, and you maymake out of it whatever you can. I shall again in the course of thishistory have occasion to speak of Dorothy's strange power, and how it wasexerted over no less a person than Queen Elizabeth.
"Ask Malcolm," repeated the girl, leaning coaxingly upon her father'sbreast. But I was saved from uttering the lie I was willing to tell; for,in place of asking me, as his daughter had desired, Sir George demandedexcitedly of Dorothy, "What have you in your pocket that strikes againstmy knee?"
"Mother of Heaven!" exclaimed Dorothy in a whisper, quickly stepping backfrom her father and slowly lifting her skirt while she reached toward herpocket. Her manner was that of one almost bereft of consciousness bysudden fright, and an expression of helplessness came over her face whichfilled my heart with pity. She stood during a long tedious moment holdingwith one hand the uplifted skirt, while with the other she clutched thekey in her pocket.
"What have you in your pocket?" demanded Sir George with a terrible oath."Bring it out, girl. Bring it out, I tell you." Dorothy started to runfrom the room, but her father caught her by the wrist and violently drewher to him. "Bring it out, huzzy; it's the key to Bowling Green Gate. Ah,I've lost my mind, have I? Blood of Christ! I have not lost my mind yet,but I soon shall lose it at this rate," and he certainly looked as if hewould.
Poor frightened Dorothy was trying to take the key from her pocket, butshe was too slow to please her angry father, so he grasped the gown andtore a great rent whereby the pocket was opened from top to bottom.Dorothy still held the key in her hand, but upon the floor lay a piece ofwhite paper which had fallen out through the rent Sir George had made inthe gown. He divined the truth as if by inspiration. The note, he feltsure, was from Dorothy's unknown lover. He did not move nor speak for atime, and she stood as if paralyzed by fear. She slowly turned her facefrom her father to me, and in a low tone spoke my name, "Malcolm." Hervoice was hardly louder than a whisper, but so piteous a cry for help Ihave never heard from human lips. Then she stooped, intending to take theletter from the floor, and Sir George drew back his arm as if he wouldstrike her with his clenched hand. She recoiled from him in terror, and hetook up the letter, unfolded it, and began to read:--
"Most gracious lady, I thank you for your letter, and with God's help Iwill meet you at Bowling Green Gate--." The girl could endure no more. Shesprang with a scream toward her father and tried to snatch the letter. SirGeorge drew back, holding firmly to the paper. She followed himfrantically, not to be thrown off, and succeeded in clutching the letter.Sir George violently thrust her from him. In the scuffle that ensued theletter was torn, and the lower portion of the sheet remained in Dorothy'shand. She ran to the fireplace, intending to thrust the fragment into thefire, but she feared that her father might rescue it
from the ashes. Sheglanced at the piece of paper, and saw that the part she had succeeded insnatching from her father bore John's name. Sir George strode hurriedlyacross the room toward her and she ran to me.
"Malcolm! Malcolm!" she cried in terror. The cry was like a shriek. Then Isaw her put the paper in her mouth. When she reached me she threw herselfupon my breast and clung to me with her arms about my neck. She trembledas a single leaf among the thousands that deck a full-leaved tree maytremble upon a still day, moved by a convulsive force within itself. Whileshe clung to me her glorious bust rose and fell piteously, and herwondrous eyes dilated and shone with a marvellous light. The expressionwas the output of her godlike vitality, strung to its greatest tension.Her face was pale, but terror dominated all the emotions it expressed. Herfear, however, was not for herself. The girl, who would have snapped herfingers at death, saw in the discovery which her father was trying tomake, loss to her of more than life. That which she had possessed for lessthan one brief hour was about to be taken from her. She had not enjoyedeven one little moment alone in which to brood her new-found love, and tocaress the sweet thought of it. The girl had but a brief instant of restin my arms till Sir George dragged her from me by his terrible strength.
"Where is the paper?" he cried in rage. "It contained the fellow'ssignature."
"I have swallowed it, father, and you must cut me open to find it.Doubtless that would be a pleasant task for you," answered Dorothy, whowas comparatively calm now that she knew her father could not discoverJohn's name. I believe Sir George in his frenzy would have killed the girlhad he then learned that the letter was from John Manners.
"I command you to tell me this fellow's name," said Sir George, with acalmness born of tempest. Dorothy did not answer, and Sir George continued"I now understand how you came by the golden heart. You lied to me andtold me that Malcolm had given it to you. Lie upon lie. In God's name Iswear that I would rather father a thief than a liar."
"I did give her the heart, Sir George," I said, interrupting him. "It wasmy mother's." I had caught the lying infection. But Sir George, in hisviolence, was a person to incite lies. He of course had good cause for hisanger. Dorothy had lied to him. Of that there could be no doubt; but herdeception was provoked by his own conduct and by the masterful love thathad come upon her. I truly believe that prior to the time of her meetingwith Manners she had never spoken an untruth, nor since that time I alsobelieve, except when driven to do so by the same motive. Dorothy was not athief, but I am sure she would have stolen for the sake of her lover. Shewas gentle and tender to a degree that only a woman can attain; but Ibelieve she would have done murder in cold blood for the sake of her love.Some few women there are in whose hearts God has placed so great an oceanof love that when it reaches its flood all other attributes of heart andsoul and mind are ingulfed in its mighty flow. Of this rare class wasDorothy.
"God is love," says the Book.
"The universe is God," says the philosopher. "Therefore," as themathematician would say, "love is the universe." To that propositionDorothy was a corollary.
The servants were standing open-eyed about us in the kitchen.
"Let us go to the dining hall," I suggested. Sir George led the way by thestone steps to the screens, and from the screens to the small banquethail, and I followed, leading Dorothy by the hand.
The moment of respite from her father's furious attack gave her time inwhich to collect her scattered senses.
When we reached the banquet hall, and after I had closed the door, SirGeorge turned upon his daughter, and with oath upon oath demanded to knowthe name of her lover. Dorothy stood looking to the floor and saidnothing. Sir George strode furiously to and fro across the room.
"Curse the day you were born, you wanton huzzy. Curse you! curse you! Tellme the name of the man who wrote this letter," he cried, holding towardher the fragment of paper. "Tell me his name or, I swear it before God, Iswear it upon my knighthood, I will have you flogged in the upper courttill you bleed. I would do it if you were fifty times my child."
Then Dorothy awakened. The girl was herself again. Now it was only forherself she had to fear.
Her heart kept saying, "This for his sake, this for his sake." Out of herlove came fortitude, and out of her fortitude came action.
Her father's oath had hardly been spoken till the girl tore her bodicefrom her shoulders. She threw the garment to the floor and said:--
"I am ready for the whip, I am ready. Who is to do the deed, father, youor the butcher? It must be done. You have sworn it, and I swear before Godand by my maidenhood that I will not tell you the name of the man whowrote the letter. I love him, and before I will tell you his name orforego his love for me, or before I will abate one jot or tittle of mylove for him, I will gladly die by the whip in your hand. I am ready forthe whip, father. I am ready. Let us have it over quickly."
The girl, whose shoulders were bare, took a few steps toward the doorleading to the upper court, but Sir George did not move. I was deeplyaffected by the terrible scene, and I determined to prevent the floggingif to do so should cost Sir George's life at my hands. I would havekilled him ere he should have laid a single lash of the whip uponDorothy's back.
"Father," continued the terrible girl, "are you not going to flog me?Remember your oaths. Surely you would not be forsworn before God and uponyour knighthood. A forsworn Christian? A forsworn knight? A forswornVernon? The lash, father, the lash--I am eager for it."
Sir George stood in silence, and Dorothy continued to move toward thedoor. Her face was turned backward over her shoulder to her father, andshe whispered the words, "Forsworn, forsworn, forsworn!"
As she put her hand on the latch the piteous old man held forth his armstoward her and in a wail of agony cried: "Doll! Doll! My daughter! Mychild! God help me!"
He covered his face with his hands, his great form shook for a moment asthe tree trembles before the fall, and he fell prone to the floor sobbingforth the anguish of which his soul was full.
In an instant Dorothy was by her father's side holding his head upon herlap. She covered his face with her kisses, and while the tears streamedfrom her eyes she spoke incoherent words of love and repentance.
"I will tell you all, father; I will tell you all. I will give him up; Iwill see him never again. I will try not to love him. Oh, father, forgiveme, forgive me. I will never again deceive you so long as I live."
Truly the fate of an overoath is that it shall be broken. When one swearsto do too much, one performs too little.
I helped Sir George rise to his feet.
Dorothy, full of tenderness and in tears, tried to take his hand, but herepulsed her rudely, and uttering terrible oaths coupled with her namequitted the room with tottering steps.
When her father had gone Dorothy stood in revery for a little time, andthen looking toward the door through which her father had just passed, shespoke as if to herself: "He does not know. How fortunate!"
"But you said you would tell him," I suggested. "You said you would givehim up."
Dorothy was in a deep revery. She took her bodice from the floor andmechanically put it on.
"I know I said I would tell my father, and I offered to give--give himup," she replied; "but I will do neither. Father would not meet my lovewith love. He would not forgive me, nor would he accept my repentance whenit was he who should have repented. I was alarmed and grieved for father'ssake when I said that I would tell him about--about John, and would givehim up." She was silent and thoughtful for a little time. "Give him up?"she cried defiantly. "No, not for my soul; not for ten thousand thousandsouls. When my father refused my love, he threw away the only opportunityhe shall ever have to learn from me John's name. That I swear, and I shallnever be forsworn. I asked father's forgiveness when he should have beggedfor mine. Whip me in the courtyard, would he, till I should bleed! Yet Iwas willing to forgive him, and he would not accept my forgiveness. I waswilling to forego John, who is more than life to me; but my father wouldnot accept my sacri
fice. Truly will I never be so great a fool the secondtime. Malcolm, I will not remain here to be the victim of another insultsuch as my father put upon me to-day. There is no law, human or divine,that gives to a parent the right to treat his daughter as my father hasused me. Before this day my conscience smote me when I deceived him, and Isuffered pain if I but thought of my father. But now, thanks to hiscruelty, I may be happy without remorse. Malcolm, if you betray me, Iwill--I will kill you if I must follow you over the world to do it."
"Do you think that I deserve that threat from you, Dorothy?" I asked.
"No, no, my dear friend, forgive me. I trust you," and she caught up myhand and kissed it gently.
Dorothy and I remained in the banquet hail, seated upon the stone benchunder the blazoned window.
Soon Sir George returned, closely followed by two men, one of whom boremanacles such as were used to secure prisoners in the dungeon. Sir Georgedid not speak. He turned to the men and motioned with his hand towardDorothy. I sprang to my feet, intending to interfere by force, if need be,to prevent the outrage; but before I could speak Lady Crawford hurriedlyentered the hall and ran to Sir George's side.
"Brother," she said, "old Bess has just told me that you have given ordersfor Dorothy's confinement in the dungeon. I could not believe Bess; butthese men with irons lead me to suspect that you really intend.--"
"Do not interfere in affairs that do not concern you," replied Sir George,sullenly.
"But this does concern me greatly," said Aunt Dorothy, "and if you sendDoll to the dungeon, Madge and I will leave your house and will proclaimyour act to all England."
"The girl has disobeyed me and has lied to me, and--"
"I care not what she has done, I shall leave your house and disown you formy brother if you perpetrate this outrage upon my niece. She is dear to meas if she were my own child. Have I not brought her up since babyhood? Ifyou carry out this order, brother, I will leave Haddon Hall forever."
"And I'll go with her," cried old Bess, who stood at the door of thescreens.
"And I, too," said Dawson, who was one of the men who had entered with SirGeorge.
"And I," cried the other man, throwing the manacles to the floor, "I willleave your service."
Sir George took up the manacles and moved toward Dorothy.
"You may all go, every cursed one of you. I rule my own house, and I willhave no rebels in it. When I have finished with this perverse wench, I'llnot wait for you to go. I'll drive you all out and you may go to--"
He was approaching Dorothy, but I stepped in front of him.
"This must not be, Sir George," said I, sternly. "I shall not leave HaddonHall, and I fear you not. I shall remain here to protect your daughter andyou from your own violence. You cannot put me out of Haddon Hall; I willnot go."
"Why cannot I put you out of Haddon Hail?" retorted Sir George, whose rageby that time was frightful to behold.
"Because, sir, I am a better man and a better swordsman than you are, andbecause you have not on all your estates a servant nor a retainer who willnot join me against you when I tell them the cause I champion."
Dawson and his fellow stepped to my side significantly, and Sir Georgeraised the iron manacles as if intending to strike me. I did not move. Atthe same moment Madge entered the room.
"Where is my uncle?" she asked.
Old Bess led her to Sir George. She spoke not a word, but placed her armsgently about his neck and drew his face down to hers. Then she kissed himsoftly upon the lips and said:--
"My uncle has never in all his life spoken in aught but kindness to me,and now I beg him to be kind to Dorothy."
The heavy manacles fell clanking to the floor. Sir George placed his handcaressingly upon Madge's head and turned from Dorothy.
Lady Crawford then approached her brother and put her hand upon his arm,saying:--
"Come with me, George, that I may speak to you in private."
She moved toward the door by which she had entered, and Madge quietly tookher uncle's hand and led him after Lady Crawford. Within five minutes SirGeorge, Aunt Dorothy, and Madge returned to the room.
"Dorothy?" said Madge in a low voice.
"Here I am, Madge," murmured Dorothy, who was sitting on the bench by theblazoned window. Madge walked gropingly over to her cousin and sat by herside, taking her hand. Then Lady Crawford spoke to Dorothy:--
"Your father wishes me to say that you must go to your apartments inEntrance Tower, and that you shall not leave them without his consent. Healso insists that I say to you if you make resistance or objection to thisdecree, or if you attempt to escape, he will cause you to be manacled andconfined in the dungeon, and that no persuasion upon our part will leadhim from his purpose."
"Which shall it be?" asked Sir George, directing his question to LadyCrawford.
Dorothy lifted her eyebrows, bit the corner of her lip, shrugged hershoulders, and said:--
"Indeed, it makes no difference to me where you send me, father; I amwilling to do whatever will give you the greatest happiness. If youconsult my wishes, you will have me whipped in the courtyard till I bleed.I should enjoy that more than anything else you can do. Ah, how tender isthe love of a father! It passeth understanding."
"Come to your apartments, Dorothy," said Lady Crawford, anxious toseparate the belligerents. "I have given your father my word of honor thatI will guard you and will keep you prisoner in your rooms. Do you not pityme? I gave my promise only to save you from the dungeon, and painful asthe task will be, I will keep my word to your father."
"Which shall it be, father?" asked Dorothy. "You shall finish the task youbegan. I shall not help you in your good work by making choice. You shallchoose my place of imprisonment. Where shall it be? Shall I go to my roomsor to the dungeon?"
"Go to your rooms," answered Sir George, "and let me never see--" but SirGeorge did not finish the sentence. He hurriedly left the hall, andDorothy cheerfully went to imprisonment in Entrance Tower.
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